


lest we remember

by beingevil



Series: The Past is Another Country [1]
Category: Thor (Comics)
Genre: AU, Gen, He's really still Loki you know, Innuendo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-07
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-10-25 19:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beingevil/pseuds/beingevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is why Dr. Donald Blake never lets Serrure tell the story of how they met, because this is how Serrure tells the story. Fill for <a href="http://norsekink.livejournal.com/6119.html?thread=9809127#t9809127">this norsekink prompt</a> for an expansion of the Don-and-Serrure story illustrated in <a href="http://7ns.tumblr.com/">7ns</a>' <a href="http://7ns.tumblr.com/post/11609441336/don-blakes-pov-serrure-is-a-strange-child">artwork</a>.</p><p><a href="http://eleedoesart.tumblr.com/">eleedoesart</a> (also <a href="http://chocolateisforever.deviantart.com/">here</a> on deviantArt) drew gorgeous, gorgeous Don and Serrure artwork for this story. </p><p>Note on the Warning and Rating: All the events taking place in this story are rated G. The R/Mature rating is for verbal innuendo (implying Serrure/Don, which does not happen in this story).</p><p>This story has a sequel in <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/482670">All That You Can't Leave Behind</a>. Please read the warnings on that story carefully.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For amarukei/ranchelle who puts up with so much of my crazy; for manic_intent who wanted to see the Loki!fic (… does it count as Loki!fic if he isn’t called Loki here) and for you o wonderful artist [7ns](http://7ns.tumblr.com); I am so sorry for the fic.
> 
> This story is written off/inspired by [7ns](http://7ns.tumblr.com)’s [introduction and art here](http://7ns.tumblr.com/post/11609441336/don-blakes-pov-serrure-is-a-strange-child). There is a gorgeous [coloured version of this artwork here](http://7ns.tumblr.com/post/11610805346/some-messy-lazy-colors-of-serrure-and-don). [Updated with Note: The original links to the artwork doesn't seem to be working any more, but [here](http://r1such4n.tumblr.com/post/18778066385/7ns-don-blakes-pov-serrure-is-a-strange)'s a reblog where it can be found.]
> 
> The title is from an [Asimov short story about total memory recall](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lest_We_Remember).
> 
> [eleedoesart](http://eleedoesart.tumblr.com/) (also [here](http://chocolateisforever.deviantart.com/) on deviantArt) drew gorgeous, gorgeous Don and Serrure artwork for this story.

This is why Don never lets Serrure tell the story of how they met, because _this_ is how Serrure tells the story.

Any passer-by would find the scene innocuous enough, and perhaps it is, if you don’t know Serrure: two enraptured ladies on a Paris park bench, a dark-haired boy perched next to them, gesticulating as he tells them a story. Innocuous enough  -  endearing, even – until one listens to the story being told.

Serrure had lured an audience of two visiting English ladies on the pretense of needing to practice his English. This was, as far as Don was concerned, a blatant lie. Serrure’s English needed no practice - save for its slight French accent, he was as fluent as a native speaker.

"Don and I met in a back alley, did you know that? So deep into the darkest reaches of the night, it was nearly morning. It was just like a story. I fell into his arms and he took me _to his bed_.”

Serrure looks over his shoulder as if to make sure they’re not overheard, but it’s really to catch Don’s eye. He knows who his real audience is.

“Don didn’t know my name, and I didn’t know his,” Serrure added, almost as an afterthought. “But,” he says, his eyes lighting up, “He was _really_ good with his hands, so… that didn’t matter.”

Don rolls his eyes. “Are you quite done?”

Serrure beams. “Almost!” He regards his audience. “ _And_ after that night, I couldn’t walk straight for a _week_.”

"Do you want to say that a little louder?" asks Don, dryly. "I don't think they heard you over in England."

Serrure grins from ear to ear, and damn if Don has come to _know_ that wicked look as well as he knows his own name.

The tale only gets wilder with each successive retelling. Weeks ago, Don would never have imagined anyone who looks as young as Serrure does to be possessed of such talent with innuendo, but clearly, Serrure has come into his life to disabuse him of his cherished notions of childhood (well…. adolescent) innocence.

That, and to show him he was wrong about many, many things.

"Well," Serrure begins. His voice drops an octave, and Don’s heart sinks with it. Don does not like that tone of voice _at all_ – Serrure would have to be at least ten years older for that tone of voice to _not_ be grounds on which to arrest him, and it would still be _wrong_.

Serrure notices the look on his face. " _You_ could always tell them what _really_ happened, Don.” As if Don’s version of events would exonerate him, rather than dig him ever deeper into the pit Serrure is making ready for him.

"You are going to get me arrested," mutters Don.

“It won’t come to that,” Serrure says, quickly, with a winning smile.

In all honesty (which Serrure has very little of), Don finds it very hard to be (or stay) angry at the boy.

"I'm surprised no one has ever tried silencing you permanently," he remarks.

"They'd have to catch me first," laughs Serrure, completely unrepentant. He leans against Don's side, his hair tickling the crook of Don’s arm. “Anyway,” he murmurs to Don, soft enough that only the two of them can hear, “The last time someone tried, you were there.”

For someone who'd pulled a knife on Don the first time they'd met (when Don was trying to help him, no less), he had gotten over his watchful reservation extraordinarily fast, and weeks into their acquaintance was casually invading Don's personal space as if they had known each other all their lives. Don had wondered if this was safe (for either of them); but he soon realised that if an unusual lack of reserve characterised Serrure’s exchanges with him, the reverse was true of Serrure's relationship with the rest of the world. Then, Serrure was much like the boy Don had encountered in that Montmartre alley; less a boy than a wary, watchful alley cat.

Don still hadn’t figured out what made him different, and he wasn’t whether he would like the answer if he actually did.

As he was lost in his thoughts, Serrure was coming to the end of his tale.

“And the best part is,” Serrure crows, his eyes catching Don’s, alight with glee, “ _Every_ single word of the story I’ve just told you is _true_!”

“That was a dirty trick,” Don reproaches.

Serrure looks at Don with those artfully wounded eyes, and Don _knows_ what really happened, and can’t help but find _himself_ half-believing this, too.

“Tell me which part of that story was a lie,” Serrure says, eyes shining with triumph.

“You are a _rogue_ ,” Don says, and try as he might, he can’t keep his fondness for the boy colouring his voice, “A _scamp_ , and a _liar_ of the highest order, and you should be clapped in chains and left to rot in the prisons of Paris.”

“You wouldn’t have me any other way,” Serrure smirks.

And the hell of it is, _that’s_ true too.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you want the truth about how Don and Serrure met, you won’t get it from Serrure.
> 
> [eleedoesart](http://eleedoesart.tumblr.com/) (also [here](http://chocolateisforever.deviantart.com/) on deviantArt) drew gorgeous, gorgeous Don and Serrure artwork for this story. 
> 
> This story has a sequel in [All That You Can't Leave Behind](http://archiveofourown.org/works/482670). Please read the warnings on that story carefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This one's for [Losse](http://scartissuesaw.tumblr.com/), who loves kid!Loki as much as I do. 
> 
> 2\. [eleedoesart](http://eleedoesart.tumblr.com/) (also [here](http://chocolateisforever.deviantart.com/) on deviantArt) drew gorgeous, gorgeous Don and Serrure artwork for this story. 
> 
> 3\. This is also a fill for [this norsekink prompt](http://norsekink.livejournal.com/6119.html?thread=9809127#t9809127) for an expansion of the Don-and-Serrure story illustrated in [7ns](http://7ns.tumblr.com/)' [artwork](http://7ns.tumblr.com/post/11609441336/don-blakes-pov-serrure-is-a-strange-child). [Updated with Note: The original link to the artwork doesn't seem to be working any more, but [here](http://r1such4n.tumblr.com/post/18778066385/7ns-don-blakes-pov-serrure-is-a-strange)'s a reblog where it can be found.]
> 
> 4\. [7ns](http://7ns.tumblr.com/)' [artwork](http://7ns.tumblr.com/post/11609441336/don-blakes-pov-serrure-is-a-strange-child) is a story about Donald Blake (Thor's human counterpart) and Serrure (Loki reborn as a street kid in Paris, in the most recent Thor comic arc published under Journey into Mystery. A quick summary of Serrure canon is [here](http://beingevil.tumblr.com/post/19461869599/journey-into-mystery-a-quick-summary). 
> 
> 5\. If you're interested in Serrure and/or kid!Loki stories, [here are a few I liked](http://beingevil.tumblr.com/post/19576756831/ask-and-you-shall-recieve-a-kid-loki-serrure) (gen, and... not). Please feel free to rec/link me to more. 
> 
> 6\. My personal casting choice for kid!Loki/Serrure is the lovely [Asa Butterfield](http://beingevil.tumblr./post/21586667814/yourbeautifulsmile7), and [here are some visual reasons why](http://beingevil.tumblr.com/post/19573893574/losse-look-look) \- they can be summarised in one word, and that is [Hugo](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0970179/). _Hugo_ is a delightful, utterly enchanting (or so I found it) story about an orphan in Paris, and Asa was thirteen when he filmed it, the age that kid!Loki allegedly is. Asa was also born on April Fool's Day, and played a young Mordred in Arthur. His resume so far simply indicates "perfection for this role" to me. 
> 
> **Thank You**
> 
> 1\. I would like to thank the lovely [amandes](http://amandes.tumblr.com/), whose comments on this were invaluable, whose time, effort, and lively discussions (including laughing at me) were very much appreciated. All other mistakes made here are my own. 
> 
> 2\. I would also like to thank [Kura](http://amarukei.tumblr.com/) and [Losse](http://scartissuesaw.tumblr.com/), who read a first draft of this and were absolutely lovely and encouraging.

Every word of Serrure’s story, as it happens, _is_ true.

Of course, like any good story-teller, Serrure left a few things out.

This is how it happens.

+

When he looks back on it, Don realises that meeting Serrure has to be one of the greatest coincidences of his life. He can imagine a hundred different ways that evening might have turned out, and as many ways in which he never met Serrure.

He does not yet realise that for the gods, there are no coincidences.

_+_

One of the things that Donald Blake had certainly not thought his time with the Medicine Sans Frontieres in Paris would involve was hovering over a bleeding adolescent boy on the streets of Paris, trying to persuade him to allow Don to take him to the hospital or to allow him to help,  with a knife to his throat.

Don had tried speaking in French, but the boy had insulted his command of the language quite thoroughly (after pulling the knife on him) by showing Don that he knew enough English to do it with. Admittedly, Don’s French could have used some work, but it was quite something, coming from a boy bleeding out over half an alley. Judging from the blood trail, this was not where he had been stabbed, but it was certainly where he had found himself unable to keep running.

“At least let me take you to a hospital,” Don tries. “Or surely you know someone – anyone who can help you. I would not wish to leave you like this.”

“I did not ask for your help,” snaps the boy, curling up over his stomach. The knife in his hand, against Don’s throat, does not move.

“But you need it,” Don says quietly, thinking that he had not seen many who needed it more.

There is furious silence in the shadowed alley.

 “Fine.” The boy bites off the word as if it has mortally angered him. “But try anything, _anything_ at all, and you will suffer for it.”

“You are most welcome,” says Don, drily.

Even without Don’s limp, the boy wouldn’t have been easy to carry. In the end (and after much grousing on the part of his newest patient), Don has to support the boy, who leans reluctantly against him as they make their unsteady way back to his clinic. Don is suddenly thankful that his limp makes it such that he does not venture far from where he lives on these night-time strolls.

Don knows the journey, short as it is, will jolt the wound, so he unwraps his scarf and uses it to staunch the bleeding. Hardly an ideal option, but the best one he has. "Hold this against the wound," Don instructs, "It will slow the bleeding.”

The boy obeys with ill grace, glaring at him as if Don has suggested that he salt the wound. Don decides he has no time to indulge childish tantrums for the night and focuses on getting them both back.  
  
Slowly and painfully, they make their way to Don's clinic, the boy cursing under his breath in French the entire way. Don doesn't understand the words, but he can't mistake the vehemence in the boy's voice.  
  
Don's settled in a small makeshift clinic in the lower reaches of Montmartre. He has the boy lean against the wall while he fumbles with his keys and then with the light switch, distantly noting that he has gotten rather a lot of blood on his clothes in the course of rendering assistance. The only thing he cares about right now is that this means the boy is still losing blood.  
  
He settles the boy on his rickety cot bed, and gently removes the bloodied scarf (ruined, for certain) so he can inspect the wound. When he tries to take the boy's jacket off – who knows where the jacket has been, he can’t tell if the filth on the jacket has already contaminated the wound. He can’t do anything about that, but he can stop further infection, and he’d like the surgical site as clean as possible - euro notes spill out of its pockets onto the cot bed. Hundreds. Thousands. More money than Don has ever seen in one place. More money than he’s ever seen in France.

More money than _he’s_ got at the moment.

Of all the strange sights Don has seen in Paris, this has definitely got to be one of them.  
  
The boy freezes.

Don says, "I'm not taking anything that's yours," as he bundles and sweeps the notes aside. "Let me deal with this and I won't touch your money."

“Looks like you’d need it,” says the boy. Clearly the state of the clinic’s disrepair has not gone unnoticed.

Don has had quite enough.

"You're _still bleeding_!" he snaps. “Could you save the complaints until after we’re done here?”

He is not proud of his outburst, but there is something about seeing the boy wounded that gets under his nerves.

The boy mutters and stills with ill grace.

When he is finally able to inspect the wound, he is troubled. Whoever inflicted it meant business. It starts midway on the boy’s ribcage, cuts across his stomach, and ends on the other side of his body. He is glad to see that the worst of the bleeding appears to be over. The wound is thankfully not deep, and its edges are clean, which is some relief, but there’s no telling where the blade had been before this, and it looks as if chances of infection are high if nothing further is done about it.

"I will have to have to stitch this," Don explains, hoping fervently that he does not have to resort to French to explain this further. His much-mocked first attempt to communicate with the boy in French was the limits of his ability with the language; he cannot simplify this any further and still say what needs to be said. The boy’s English seemed fair enough for their exchanges so far, but one never knew.  
  
He thinks the boy does not understand, or worse, has lapsed into shock; but the boy’s eyes flicker to meet his.  
  
"It is necessary to... sew this up?" the boy asks, gesturing to the wound.  
  
"Yes," says Don, "It will heal faster, this way. Otherwise it may become infected."  
  
"Fine," the boy says, although Don does not miss the fear that briefly shadows his eyes.  
  
"Is there anyone I can call for you?" Don asks, feeling at a loss. "Your parents? Family? A friend?"  
  
"There is no one," the boy bites off, "Whatever it is you do, it is best you do it quickly."  
  


Don could not help but admire the boy’s spirit, even when directed against him.  
  
The boy trembles momentarily when Don brushes the bloodstained cloth aside, but pulls himself together in an admirable show of self-restraint. He cannot be older than... thirteen, perhaps fifteen? The pain makes him look younger. It is hard to tell. He is slight, but his eyes are seem far older than they should seem in a body so young. Don deliberates momentarily over whether he should simply cut the ruined cloth away, or leave it, and clearly takes longer than his irritable patient thinks he should have.

"The more you hesitate, the longer it will take," snaps his patient, irritably. "I will not _break_. Have it done and get it over with."  
  
"As you wish," Don mutters.

He offers the boy a local anesthetic, but the boy shakes his head violently at the syringe.

“It’ll hurt more this way,” Don notes, with some concern.

“I can take it,” the boy says, biting off the words. 

The boy flinches when he makes the first stitch, but is utterly silent throughout the delicate operation, though Don can feel him holding back his shaking. He has to applaud the boy’s self-control.

_There is no one_ haunts his mind, long after the last stitch has been tied off, even as he manages to coax his cagey patient into downing a glass of water. “You’ve lost a lot of blood,” he explains, “This will help to replace it.”

He does the best he can with warm water and a towel for cleaning up the blood; the boy adamantly refuses to be examined anywhere other than the immediate injury site. Don is less than pleased, but persuades himself that when a patient was being this difficult, it was probably unlikely that they were bleeding to death from other concealed injuries.

He searches in his cupboard for a replacement shirt – the one the boy is wearing is ruined – and settles on a warm flannel one that buttons up and will not disturb the injury.

By the time he has persuaded his patient to accept the shirt (reluctantly), dawn has risen.

The boy looks at him warily, and as the morning sunlight falls on him, Don realises for the first time that his eyes are a striking green.

He is struck by a sudden sense of _déjà vu –_ but it cannot be it, can it? He has never seen this boy before, he is sure of it – and yet somehow there seems to be something that calls to him about the face before him.  

He shakes himself. It must be the lack of sleep playing tricks on him.

"I'll see myself out," his patient says forcefully.

“I’m happy to help,” Don says, cautiously.

"I don't need you to look out for me."

"All right," says Don. "All right. But take this," at that he presses bandages and antiseptic cream into the boy's hands. "Keep the stitches clean. Use that twice a day. If anything goes wrong –” _Please don’t let anything go wrong_ , he thinks, “Come back to me."  
  


The boy looks at him steadily and says nothing. He looks meaningfully at the door, and Don moves to open it for him.

The boy moves away slowly, gingerly, supporting himself against the wall, and fades away into the dawn. Just before he turns the corner he looks back, warily. Don is certain that it is to ensure Don has not followed.

Don stays where he is, leaning against the doorway, and ignores the inexplicable impulse not to let this boy slip out of his sight. It is not something that he can explain – he is certain he has not seen the boy before, and he doubts he will see him again.

Belatedly, he realises that he has forgotten to ask the boy’s name. Not that the boy would have yielded that information, anyway, he thinks, but still thinks it’s a pity that he does not know.

But long after the sun has set, those green eyes continue to haunt him.  
  


+

Don hadn't expected to see his ungrateful patient again. The best he had hoped for was _not_ finding the boy beyond help in yet another alley.

But not two days after their little midnight adventure, Don began to feel as if he was being watched. Small things, really: a shadow crossing the square out of the corner of his eye, gone when he turns to take a closer look; a careless light footstep when he is out on his nightly stroll; and above it all – just a new feeling that he is not alone. To his own surprise, it is not a bad feeling, though he thinks it should be. It feels more like he’s waiting for something to happen.

He’s out on a bench near the square one afternoon when a shadow falls over him.

Don looks up, and there he is, Don’s patient of the night, his stray alley cat, the boy he saved, staying just outside Don’s personal space, hands behind his back. Looking a little less drawn and pale, wearing a dark green jacket and battered shoes, but whole and relatively well.

Don isn’t ready for the way his heart turns over in his chest.

 “Still alive, I see,” he says, barely daring to breathe in case he scares the boy away.

“Miss me?” the boy asks, and Don feels an unbidden smile stealing across his face.

“I wonder why I’d miss someone who cursed me all the way back to the clinic when I was trying to help him,” Don says.

The boy performs an unfairly graceful one-shoulder shrug. “You Americans are strange. Perhaps you do.”

“How are the stitches?” Don asks.

The boy looks at him and seems to be studying him. “Healing,” he says. “Want to see?”

“That’d be safest,” he answers, carefully. “Do you want to do this here, or do you want to go back to my clinic?”

The corners of the boy’s mouth tip up in a positively mischievous smile. “Very forward, aren’t you?”

Don gives him a look. “That is not what I meant.”

“Sounds like it was,” the boy answers, regarding Don with a skeptical gaze.

Don wonders why this exchange feels so familiar when it has no right to.

After further negotiations, they head back to the clinic. Don props the door open. “You can leave any time you want to,” he says.

“So,” he says, as the boy settles on his examination table. “Do you have a name, or will it be more games?”

“You’re so straightforward,” says the boy, looking deeply disappointed.

“Don Blake,” he says, offering his hand, and ignoring the bait.

“Serrure,” offers his imp of a patient, smiling brightly as he takes it.

“Shall we begin?” he asks, after the silence stretches too long with Serrure’s eyes avid on his face.

“Can’t wait to get my clothes off?” asks Serrure, his eyes never leaving Don’s face.

Don makes a strangled sound in his throat.

  
"I’m always taking off my clothes for you," laments Serrure. "I think it's only fair that you do the same, too." He tugs at the hem of Don's shirt in a way that means business.  
  
"Nice shirt," he observes, and then his eyes flick up to catch Don's with a knowing look. "It'd look better on the floor."  
  
Don jerks away from him as if he's been stung. "Oh, you are not," he manages, before Serrure bursts into peals of delighted laughter, only cut short by his wincing and holding a hand over his side.  
  
"If you've ruptured the stitches, you have yourself to blame," says Don, severely, as he gets to work.  
  
"Worth it," grins the little demon. "The look on your face! It was priceless."  
  
"So that's how I am rewarded," mutters Don, inspecting the stitches. He releases a breath he hadn’t even realised he had been holding.  The stitches look fine and healing appears to be coming along just as it should. No sign of infection, which was better than he had hoped.  
  
Serrure nods decisively, and watches Don through through lowered lashes. It make Don uneasy for reasons he cannot name, and he briskly buttons the kid's shirt up for him; glaring at him when Serrure sighs theatrically.  
  
"You are no fun at _all_ ," he has the temerity to complain. Then he brightens. "I could fix that," he offers, grinning mischievously.  
  
"You are too young for that sort of thing," Don comments.  
  
"Not in this country, I'm not," Serrure counters.  
  
Don chokes at that revelation; and Serrure shakes with suppressed laughter, mindful of his stitches, and careful not to laugh out loud this time.

"Even so," he says, eventually; noticing that Serrure is still watching him expectantly.  
  
"Would it be so wrong?" Serrure asks, and oh, that tone would sound innocent enough; save that Don knows who's asking.

Don has to go and stand in the doorway before he completely loses his composure again, because it’s that or throw the boy out.

+

Don doesn’t know it, but that afternoon he has given Serrure a new game to play, and the name of the game is Make Don Uncomfortable.

He doesn't know how Serrure manages to get under his skin so easily. Serrure, on the other hand, is delighted by this, and proceeds to exploit it _shamelessly._

Don knows at every turn that if he could just _say no_ , or _stop_ , Serrure probably would – _probably_. He has a pretty good idea of the kind of person Serrure is about a month in, and he has no illusions that anything he says or does would stop Serrure from doing _exactly_ as Serrure wanted. Serrure would probably take extra joy in doing exactly whatever it was that unnerved Don so.

But he surprises himself because he doesn’t _want_ to say no, doesn’t want to say _stop_ ; doesn’t want to stop Serrure being anything _but_ Serrure, and he can’t explain it.

+

He hadn't expected Serrure to stay around after his immediate reason for being part of Don's life was over. Every time Serrure leaves after a follow-up, Don doesn’t expect to see him again, and ignores the undeniable, inexplicable sense of loss that follows hard on the heels of that thought.  
  
But Serrure keeps turning up, just like a bad, _bad_ penny, until Don can't imagine the shape of the world without Serrure by his side. Barely weeks after making each other's acquaintance, it felt like Serrure has always been part of his life.  
  
Somehow, Serrure seemed to fit into Don's life as easily as a key turning in a lock, as if all along, Don's life had had a space just waiting for Serrure to come and fill it. It did seem that Serrure now owned the hours and minutes and gaps in the day that used to belong to no one else and now belonged to Serrure and Serrure alone.  
  
Within weeks it was as if Don could hardly remember his life before Serrure. It was remarkable how that little scamp had worked his way into Don's life; nearly as remarkable as how easily Don's life had made room for Serrure, as if he had always been there, as if he was meant to be there. As if there had been a place in Don's life just for Serrure, just waiting for Serrure to show up and claim it. It seemed like Don could hardly remember a time in his life without the little troublemaker perched on his countertop, dragging him around the streets and sights of Paris, stealing [ _pommes frites_ ] off his plate and assuring him in all earnestness that they tasted better stolen, _everything_ did.  
  
Yet Don's time was the one thing Serrure never had to steal, if only because even the greatest thief cannot steal that which is given to him freely.

He is sitting on a park bench in the sunshine with Serrure at his side, gesticulating wildly as he regales him with his latest tales/exploits/adventures. Don thinks that Serrure makes half of them up simply to see Don’s reaction.

“Trickster,” Don says, looking into Serrure’s eyes. Try as he can, he can’t stop the smile curving the edges of his mouth as he gives up wondering why that word feels so _right_ to him.

Serrure grins at him, eyes alive with mischief.

“Don’t you forget it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Research indicates that the age of consent in France is fifteen. I recall an interview/article where kid!Loki's age was revealed to be thirteen, which would make him under the age of consent. Always open to further information/corrections, though!


End file.
